


This Love, We're Professional

by fairyminseok



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - MAMA (Music Video), Angst, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-05 20:14:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6721711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairyminseok/pseuds/fairyminseok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The flow of time may stop for Zitao, but he can’t turn back a broken heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Love, We're Professional

**Author's Note:**

  * For [e2x2o](https://archiveofourown.org/users/e2x2o/gifts).



> For my darling unnie 
> 
> Title from "Professional" by The Weeknd.

_"Are you happy?"_

Zitao doesn't know how to answer his own words, the ones he's whispered into the mirror while his fingers trail across the cracked glass.

He can't afford to replace it these days, just strokes the broken pieces, waiting for the skin of his fingers -- sensitive and untouched -- to be cut by the jagged edge.

He's leaning against the counter, tired and weary. Remembering the club; lights feeding the fuzziness of his limbs, neon street signs amazing him as he'd stumbled inside, ID falling to the floor somewhere to be stepped on, bent and broken.

Picked up by _him._

And Zitao -- too high on the slowing of time, on the pill he’d pushed past his lips to realize properly, to grasp his mental state before it scampered away -- had smiled. Had thanked him without a second thought before staggering away. Time had sped back up, had returned to normal with the snap of a finger, a muttered curse.

 _He_ needed to know that this wasn't like old times. That Zitao was better now.

Zitao had been followed, greeted and the touch -- just a hand to his shoulder and nothing and more and yet it was everything; even in his state he'd been able to know, understand. Propositioned, really.

"It's been a while."

"I hadn't expected to see you here."

"Tao, how are you? Are you okay do you need water?"

"I should go, shouldn't I? If you want to -- if you -- call this number? Text it? I miss you."

Zitao, he sees the numbers written on his arm still in shining black ink; hasn't bothered to wash them off, isn't sure if he actually wants to.

Because the offer, -- "We can just talk if you need? Nothing more" -- had seemed so promising, so much. Zitao, he sees an opportunity staring him down.

Joonmyun's always had the money, had taken care of him, had sheltered him, kept him above the waves until things had gotten too bad, until Zitao had used that very care to ruin himself.

The partying, the boys, the girls, the alcohol, the ebb and flow of time at his fingertips; unstopped by the flow of water that always tried.

Too much, he can still hear Joonmyun say quietly. _You're too much for me to handle and I don't think I can -- I don't want to abandon you Tao, but I don't want to stay while you destroy your life when I can do nothing but help your downfall._

Joonmyun had been so wrong to leave, had been so wrong in the way he'd taken Zitao's hand in his own once, given him one last payment to keep Zitao on his feet a little longer, help him get by.

A job maybe, a nice apartment where he can fix things, get back into school.

That money, it's gone now. It hadn't run out -- Zitao had wanted to do what Joonmyun asked, had wanted a lot of things -- but it'd been stolen. Apartment ransacked, torn apart, Zitao left with nothing; even less than he'd had when Joonmyun had left.

But Joonmyun, he's back. Zitao knows he can't be resisted -- knows that even while self destructive and disastrous -- he's beautiful.

There's merit in knowing one's self worth. Even if it's caked on -- eyeliner, clothes he can't really afford but somehow owns -- it's still there. The tiny bit of worth, of something that keeps Zitao afloat and not into the worse things.

_No, but I could be happy, if I tried._

Zitao answers his own question, lighting the cigarette that's been dangling from the fingertips not tracing glass; it tastes too bitter today, cheap brand cigarettes that do nothing for him but fuel the sudden greed blossoming in Zitao's heart.

 

\---

 

"Hyung."

"You called?" Joonmyun sounds questioning, shocked that Zitao has actually called, but his voice still has that pristine, put-together feel about it. He's always been a professional.

"I called."

"Do you want to--" Joonmyun loses the professional tone, wavers at the tip of his question, hints at so much more.

"I do."

"We can't," Joonmyun pauses. Zitao knows him well enough, knows he's tugging at a crisp collar, licking his lips. A serious Joonmyun is a nervous Joonmyun. "We need to go to a motel."

"That's fine," Zitao says, and he watches the smoke as it trails towards the ceiling. He's calm, tranquil; the come down is when he's at his best, when time has sped back up and everything has left his system.

Or perhaps is worse, because the come down is when his limbs feel heavier, mind weary, and the come down is when Zitao wants. When he reminisces and wants and needs and-- "We don't need to just talk."

"I think we do," Joonmyun murmurs quietly, and there's that uncertainty he's always had, that uncertainty Zitao despises more than Joonmyun's absence. "You're still using time."

"We're adults," Zitao says simply, and even though his words betray change there's a familiarity in them that even Zitao recognizes. "I've come a long way since you left."

 

\---

The place they meet is nice; Zitao's been here before though he barely remembers it, just recognizes the vending machines, the blurry signs above the check in desk. Zitao is normal now, just tired, but he can see the concern in Joonmyun's eyes, the unsaid thoughts, the accusations.

_ you haven't changed _

But Zitao, he has changed. 

He can show Joonmyun that.

It's quiet as they ride the elevator up, and the air is thick, filled with a tension that's nowhere near what it should be.

"Before you ask," Zitao says, startled by how thick his accent sounds, lips too chapped, knees too unsteady to remember how to move his tongue to use Korean. "Before you ask, things have been fine. Not living wise, but I'm not -- I'm not a wreck anymore. Tonight was just -- it's a Friday. I let go on Fridays."

"I'd believe you if I didn't know you well," Joonmyun says calmly. Zitao hates the worry, hates the disappointment.

"Don't judge what you haven't been here to see," Zitao spits out, venom on his tongue now. He shouldn't have come. "Why do you want to see me anyways? You left."

"Well I'm back," Joonmyun says as he swipes the hotel card, lets them into a dimly lit room. It's simple, sleek, soft neon mood lighting still attractive to Zitao's post haze.

"You abandoned me," Zitao mutters, but he's sitting on the bed, fingers curling into the soft, silk material. He's still sensitive, to touch, to smell to light and he nearly moans at the feel of it beneath his fingers.

"I didn't abandon you, Taozi," Joonmyun says softly. "And I haven't been gone long. You needed time. I needed time. I gave you --"

"The money was stolen," Zitao admits. And he knows that maybe he should've contacted Joonmyun. Should've told him. But Joonmyun had--

"How have you been--"

"Don't worry," Zitao cuts him off, a kind of sad smirk on his lips. "Nothing illegal. I haven't been able to find real employment, but I'm surviving. Things aren't really okay but--"

Zitao can feel himself breaking.

"Are you happy with the life you have now?" Joonmyun asks softly, coming over to sit beside Zitao, to place a hand on his shoulder again. Zitao feels small, a child, helpless, needs Joonmyun. "You don't have to lie to me, Zitao."

"No."

"I can't erase what happened," Joonmyun tells him, and the hand drops to Zitao's waist. It's exhilarating -- it always has been -- to hear Joonmyun use his real name and not the cute pet names, to feel Joonmyun's fingers, gentle on him. "But I came here looking for you and i want to make things right."

"I thought you said I had to make them right by myself?" Zitao is quiet, on the verge of tears now -- an easy crier, a weak human being, self-deprecating, whiny -- but he can't stop them, can't stop the way his body suddenly shudders, the way he unconsciously leans into Joonmyun's side.

"I've realized that even when someone needs to fix themselves and that no one can do it for them they need the support," Joonmyun is quiet, but there's something in his tone that Zitao misses, craves.

"How much do you miss me?" Zitao asks, interrupts. He needs to know. Needs to demand. Always. He turns toward Joonmyun with a serious gaze, fingers curling into the sheets with the itch to turn back time, to repeat the conversation over and over again until it ends up where he wants it.

"I miss you more than anything," Joonmyun says with a croak in his voice, and it's a cheesy movie line, so Joonmyun but so beautiful to Zitao's waiting ears.

"Show me then," Zitao mumbles, swiping the air with a hand, slowing down time just enough for things to feel queasy, for his stomach to alight. He doesn't always need the extra help to feel amazing in the glow of slow motion.

Joonmyun, his fingers are wet to the touch, cool and addictive, just like Zitao has remembered, just like he's dreamed about since the day Joonmyun left, since the day he'd waded through stopped time and out of Zitao's life.

"Not tonight," Joonmyun says then, and the words are slurred with the slowing of the clock of on the wall. "Don’t use time, Zitao."

The clock speeds up with a violent dip in Zitao’s heart.

"Why?" Zitao asks, trying not to let his voice crack. It does anyways.

"I didn't come back here to sleep with you," Joonmyun sounds too calm, too collected. "Especially not under the influence of your powers."

"Then what do you want?"

"I just want you," joonmyun says honestly, and he looks so sad for a moment that it's hard to believe he's the one that left, hard to believe that Zitao's been climbing through life alone.

"How can you have me if we don't-"

"This is one of the things, one of the reasons," Joonmyun interrupts, gives him a long look, full of thoughts that Zitao can't read. "Love doesn't equal sex, Zitao. I don't want to hurt you that way."

"You already hurt me enough," Zitao shrugs, curls his legs up to his chest to match the way his fingers dig into the sheets.

"You're not the only one that's been hurt," Joonmyun points out. The way he looks at Zitao is condescending, and it makes him squirm in his place. "You forget that it was your behaviour that drove me away."

"You didn't need to leave," Zitao mutters, feeling defeated.

"I've only been gone for a few months," Joonmyun says, reaching out again to place a gentle hand on Zitao's shoulder, to squeeze like he's a concerned father and Zitao and his rebellious son. "And I come back to you acting the same as when I left."

"I told you," Zitao snaps, removing Joonmyun's hand from his shoulder, fixing him with a look of disgust. "That was a once in a while thing. I'm not crazy anymore."

"You were never--" Joonmyun looks shocked, hurt, worried. Zitao hates it. He should have stayed home.

"Don't," Zitao says, shaking his head and looking at the ceiling, watching the lighting shift through soft shades of neon. "Don't."

"If I choose to believe you," Joonmyun starts and it sounds condescending still, worried in a way Zitao doesn't want him to be. "Will you come stay with me?"

Zitao doesn't want his charity. Earlier, he'd thought about it, entertained the idea of slipping Joonmyun into his hands again, but now he feels sick.

"How many nights here?" Zitao asks instead, accent coming through with the effort of holding back tears.

"I booked us a week," Joonmyun tells him quietly, and Zitao laughs a little, a choked kind of sarcastic giggle. Joonmyun knows him too well, knows he'd want to stay at neither or their places, would want to try and work things out.

"I'm tired," Zitao says in place of a proper answer, lets himself sink into the comfortable, lets the energy leave his body, the strain of using his powers for hours on end.

"I really did miss you," Joonmyun says from the foot of the bed. Zitao can barely get the energy to lift his head and stare at him, vision blurring but gaze steady. "I didn't want to leave."

"But you did," Zitao murmurs, before falling into a deep sleep. And it's a sign this sleep; Zitao doesn't let his guard down, doesn't make himself vulnerable enough to sleep in front of anyone. He still trusts Joonmyun, still cares, still _loves_. “You broke my heart.”

They can talk in the morning.

\---

Zitao wakes up with a craving for coffee. The overly sweetened kind, made fancy with whipped cream. Fed to him from a spoon, crinkled eyes and laughter as the scent of aftershave tickles his senses.

It confuses him at first, has him wanting to sit up and wonder where the coffee is, why he suddenly wants something he only liked because of one person. Zitao doesn't notice the warmth until he tries to move, doesn't notice Joonmyun clinging to him in his sleep, nose pressed into Zitao's back.

He snorts out loud, sinks back down sleepily and sighs. Zitao isn't surprised; he knows Joonmyun had been sincere about missing him, knows that Joonmyun always clings, always needs to be too close, so close.

Now that he's completely sobered of his anger, of the depleted energy of his powers, Zitao can think straight, and he feels guilty. Bitterness is one thing; Joonmyun did leave, but it hadn't been in the way Zitao makes it out to be, hadn't been more than a separation for their own individual health.

Zitao hates that he can only think rationally, can only see things like this after the fact. Emotion explodes forth and he can't reel it back in, can't deal with it in the way he should, in the way he needs to.

Zitao sighs again.

Joonmyun never said he wouldn't come back. He'd given Zitao the money, held him, touched him one last time, and told him one day they could fix things, but only after Zitao fixed himself.

And Zitao has fixed himself, in a way. He doesn't abuse, he doesn't hurt, he just struggles to get by in a way that isn't his doing. He no longer needs the pills, no longer needs to repeat days to fix them.

He wonders if Joonmyun still feels the need to fill his surroundings with water and drown. Zitao isn't the only damaged one, isn't the only one that needed fixing. It was just more noticeable on his end, college dropout with a drug problem and an emotional dependency on others.

Joonmyun has a job, a condo, a successful life with pressed suits and the eyes of any woman or man he ever wants. Not Zitao.

Joonmyun shifts beside him, sits up with a blink of his eyes and a glance at Zitao's stony features, at the way his lips press together in confusion.

"Do you want breakfast?" Joonmyun asks slowly, and Zitao has always hated the way he switches from asleep to awake, always prepared for the world while Zitao struggles to remember what day it is, what colour the world wants to be around him as it sets his mood.

"I have no money," Zitao mutters honestly, curls back in the blankets Joonmyun has shed, calming the frantic beating of his heart as the intimacy of the night, of this morning rushes towards him.

"They have a buffet," Joonmyun says through a yawn, arms stretched above his head and eyes glistening with sleep. Joonmyun is still beautiful, will probably always be beautiful. Zitao still wants, still needs -- no doesn't need, he's survived, he's survived and he doesn't need but he _wants_ always. Even if he tries to pretend he doesn't, tries to pretend he won't just let himself fall back into Joonmyun's life too easily.

"I was thinking before I slept," Joonmyun says carefully, pulling on socks with delicate hands, folding the tops perfectly so that they sit on his legs at the right length. Zitao's socks don't even match. "And this isn't charity, but I didn't know about the money, and i think maybe we could go shopping, get some job interview clothes."

"I don't think-" Zitao starts, but he knows he'll take it, knows he'll go and let Joonmyun piece back together his shambled life. Zitao's fingers twitch with the need to speed up time, with the need to fast forward into the future to avoid the awkward breakfast, avoid the shipping trip. Skip to the evening, when Zitao might get what he wants, when they can use the hotel for what it's made.

"There's a position for a designer at my company," Joonmyun continues, ignoring Zitao's inner mess, ignoring the way he holds back emotion. It's too early for the seriousness, for the fighting to start already. Zitao wonders if they can survive even the time in the hotel that Joonmyun has clearly planned out in the same articulate way he plans everything else.

"I haven't touched any of that in a long time," Zitao murmurs. And he hasn't, hasn't created anything, hasn't touched a computer -- he has no internet -- or even a sewing machine in a long time, hasn't felt the want.

He has more important things like surviving, hasn't done anything for _himself_ since before he'd learned how to combine substance with power, how to create the perfect escape.

"Maybe you could start again?" Joonmyun prods, looking worried, concerned, the face Zitao hates.

"Maybe," Zitao agrees, and it really is easy, falling back into the routine of letting Joonmyun fix him, falling right back into where he was months ago. Except it's clearer now, because there's to hinder his view of Joonmyun, nothing trapping him in a different headspace. Zitao has changed.

A determination fills him then. To prove that he's changed, to prove that last night at the club wasn't his everyday, isn't the way he goes about life. He's changed and if Joonmyun can help him become himself again, can do all the things he tried so hard to do before, Zitao can become something new.

"I'll come with you," Zitao says finally. Like the dimmed neon lights above them, duller during the day, his resolve weakens.

"Thank you," Joonmyun says with a kind of sincerity Zitao doesn't think he's heard from anyone in a while. It hurts, coming from Joonmyun's mouth, hurts in the way his mouth quirks up into a smile. "I've taken this time off work so we have all day, all week."

"Breakfast then?" Zitao prompts, and it feels familiar this. Breakfast, shopping, the other things he's not sure can fall back into place with the damage of self and abandonment. He'll try though. "Do they have orange juice?"

"Always a child," Joonmyun laughs, a simple, good natured laugh that reminds Zitao that they are new again, awkward and unsure. Formal words and arguments and laughter that sounds of place anywhere that's not a business meeting.

Zitao says nothing.

\---

Zitao hasn't been eating well the past few months.

Living off the scraps of friends houses he's staying off, living off the meager paychecks he gets from short labour jobs, living off the harvest bags that come once a month.

A breakfast buffet at a nice hotel feels like some kind of luxury to him, feels like something he no longer knows or deserves though this is nothing compared to meals at Joonmyun's, compared to meals at his parents, compared to the meals he himself used to buy when he was successful.

When his clothing, his patterns were displayed somewhere other than his own mind.

Zitao tries not to eat like he hasn't eaten in days. He ate the day before yesterday, a pack of ramen noodles he's sure had already gone bad, but Joonmyun doesn't need to know that. Joonmyun doesn't need to know about the five outfits he owns, about the cracked mirror in his tiny bathroom or about the mouse that lives in the walls.

Joonmyun still notices, stares at Zitao across the table with intensity, something Zitao isn't used to anymore. No one looks at him like that, not even the boys at the club that notice his earrings -- kept pristine even when the rest of his life is not -- look at him like they want to devour him (they never do get the chance).

"I still have your old portfolios," Joonmyun comments once Zitao is done eating, once they're sitting comfortably in the booth and Joonmyun's intense gaze has turned soft once more, eyes taking in Zitao like he's never seen him before. "They're good enough that we can use them to get you the job."

"You can't just wave me in?" Zitao asks, lips pursed around the tip of his cup, around the orange juice he'd been craving. "You're important."

Joonmyun laughs, a real laugh this time unlike the one earlier. "Not in that department," He says truthfully, smiles gently. "I can get you an interview but you'll need to do the rest."

"And what do I say about the past year?" Zitao asks, feeling the self confidence gone before its even there. "I haven't exactly been employed and my address--"

"You've been taking the year off, staying with family and traveling," Joonmyun shrugs, and Zitao wants to laugh. He's always prepared. He's been planning this. "The money you made from the job you had when we met would have easily paid for all of that."

"And I'm ready to join the field again?" Zitao nods, hating that he's ready to go along with this, hating that he'd tried hard enough on his own and all it takes is for Joonmyun to swoop back into his life for him to want to fix it.

"Exactly," Joonmyun smiles, grins really. "And if you choose to stay with me I have all the equipment, everything and anything you need to start a new portfolio and succeed."

"Huang Zitao, up and coming designer who disappeared is suddenly back in business," Zitao says scathingly, a sarcastic kind of bitterness coming through in his words.

"It could happen," Joonmyun says quietly, and Zitao wonders if his tone has subdued him, feels guilt but not regret. If Joonmyun is back, Zitao needs to learn to stand up to him, needs to learn to respond in more ways than just a temper tantrum.

"It could," Zitao turns away from their table, glances out the window to see the sun shining through. He's never up this early.

He doesn't feel the need to warp time.

\---

"I moved," Joonmyun tells Zitao later that day, when the sun is dipping below the horizon and the silk of Zitao's new shirt feels exhilarating against his skin. They're talking, words careful and thoughts muted, held back on the bed of the motel room, the lighting dulled in the day brightening in the dusky feel of evening.

Zitao's senses have always been heightened, a step above others even without the use of drugs, alcohol, powers. Touch, smell, taste, sight, hearing, all that much more, body sensitive to the things around him.

Joonmyun had been the one to tell them that it was normal for those with the gift of powers, for those that could bend elements around them to their bidding. Joonmyun himself had the opposite, a dulling of his senses, a life lived like he was underwater and not just able to control it.

Zitao had once been fascinated by these things, had once clung to Joonmyun for answers, for wonder, had dabbled his hands into one too many things to heighten them even more, to make it all that much more amazing.

It had ruined him.

Now, he finds it boring, normal. The lights are sometimes too bright, and some materials like velvet make his skin crawl. The only thing he finds real pleasure in is the slowing down of time, just a bit, just enough to make his sense alight with something new again. The lights of clubs pulsing slowly, the feel of fingers on skin, of skin on sheets, of the touch of things on his mouth dragging on, taking longer.

Zitao's fingers twitch with the need to move time, but a hand on his stops him, has him surfacing from the waves of his mind into the present, eyes connecting with Joonmyun's large, gentle ones.

"You stopped listening," Joonmyun says, frowning lightly. His fingers curl around Zitao's hand and Zitao doesn't stop him, just sits perfectly still, straightens his spine and washes down the guilt with hope.

He's already growing accustomed to Joonmyun again, already hoping this isn't just a short reunion, that Joonmyun will stay, that Joonmyun will _fix him_.

"I'm distracted," Zitao admits, but he's focusing now, the room around him dimming in power as he makes Joonmyun the centre of all his attention. "Talking takes a lot of effort. I've been talking all day."

"Do you want to sleep?" Joonmyun asks, and there's an awkwardness in his words again as he glances around the room, fiddles for the TV remote, glances at Zitao. "We can watch a movie? Just relax?"

"You wanted to talk," Zitao says in a tired voice. Joonmyun's presence is making him shaky.

"I'm trying to assure you that things will be okay," Joonmyun says then, looking young and confused with his legs crossed and the remote dangling from his fingers. Zitao likes him like this, remembers him like this, wonders if Joonmyun would have stayed youthful if he hadn't met him.

"I think maybe," Zitao says in a slow voice, almost a drawl. He's hungry, he realizes, having only eaten at breakfast. "I think maybe I should get the portfolios from you and go to my interview and try to make it on my own for a bit."

"Without me?"

Zitao nods, fingers curling into the sheets, into the folds of his shirt, his thighs. "I can't just get used to you in one day and I can't let you help me so much. You wanted me to do this by myself and I still can't."

"You can't because I would never let you," Joonmyun speaks quietly, as though he rarely says things like this (he doesn't ever say them, doesn't ever admit to his wrong doings, only Zitao's, only his coworkers and employees). "I did everything for you and then left you on your own and you were fragile."

"I'm still alive," Zitao points out, feeling the same kind of bitterness from last night coming up, the same kind of fear. _he left you, you needed him and he left and now you're here with him back and what will it do ?_

"Barely," Is all Joonmyun says for an answer before he's turning away and the youthfulness disappears to show lines of stress, drooping eyes and slumping posture. He's right. 

Zitao ripples with confusion, and before he stops himself his fingers are twitching. The world spins into reverse, not a backwards tape like the movies show, but a split second jolt before the sun is still just dipping below the horizon and it's not quite evening. 

Zitao could lie, could change the conversation to be okay again, but the guilt is too much, the realization that this is what Joonmyun couldn't handle beyond the drugs, the partying, the irresponsibility. 

"I moved," Joonmyun is saying, and it takes a second for Zitao to adjust to the new time, for the words to reach his brain. He looks at Joonmyun with fear in his eyes, lies on the tip of his tongue before he shakes his head, looks down. 

His fingers are digging into the hem of his shirt like a scared child. 

"This already happened," Zitao says quietly, and the admission hurts, body curling in on itself before he can stop it. Zitao doesn't want to look up to see Joonmyun's disappointed gaze but he does anyways, sees the sigh on Joonmyun's lips. "But I-- I haven't done that in a long time, not since the last time you were here."

"So it's just me that makes you this way," Joonmyun mutters. The anger is barely there but Zitao can feel it, and he can feel the familiarity in the way Joonmyun speaks. "What did I say to scare you?"

"The truth," Zitao says, and he feels proud for admitting it, for not lying. In the past he never told Joonmyun what he said, never admitted it was his fault. "I said I wanted to survive on my own and you told me I couldn't."

"I'm sorry," Joonmyun says, crawling towards Zitao on the bed. "But this is the proof you can't."

He puts his hands on Zitao's shoulders, and the way they're sitting makes Joonmyun appear taller, eyes looking down at Zitao with the emotions he rarely shows. Zitao gulps, leans backwards. He'd wanted to be close to Joonmyun last night, had wanted him back but now it hurts and Zitao wants to push away, remembers that the bad bits of himself still exist.

"I--" Zitao can't get the words out, can't make a sentence in his mind, and he wants to push Joonmyun away, wants to sink into the sheets and sleep away his problems like he usually does but something stops him. "I don't know what to do."

"Neither do I," Joonmyun says in a soft voice. Zitao forgets, has forgotten that Joonmyun sometimes isn't all put-together. He looks up at him hesitantly and it's brief, barely there, but Joonmyun leans down and kisses him softly, quickly.

"I left because I loved you too much to see you the way you were," Joonmyun tells him and Zitao doesn't like hearing these words, never has, but listens, sits quietly and straight, attention focused on Joonmyun like before he'd turned back time. "I came back because I realized that wasn't right."

"Loved," Zitao says, and he hates being this way, hates the way emotions jump from his heart and out into the open without permission. "Past-tense."

"I don't want to say it present tense when it's clear you don't want me here," Joonmyun's words don't make sense to Zitao, but he stops the need when his fingers twitch once more. 

"I do," Zitao tries to assure him, tries to fix the damaged situation without restarting. He doesn't know how, has never learned how. "You never taught me how to fix us because you always did it."

"I always thought that's what you wanted," Joonmyun says in slow bursts, and Zitao wonders why he's so satisfied seeing it, satisfied with confused, sad Joonmyun. "You wanted to be the baby so I took care of you in any way I could, even before I knew that you were repeating our life, even before I knew about everything else."

"I didn't know anything else before that," Zitao stretches out on the bed, lets himself sink into the sheets. An escape effort, relaxation in a situation where it doesn't exist, where his limbs shake from the exertion of emotion, of facing the things he always hides from. 

Zitao feels the bed shift, feels Joonmyun beside him, palm resting on his own outstretched one, and he remembers. 

 

_ "You're normal," Joonmyun says, and his cheeks are rounder, more youthful, as he places his hand in Zitaos, pulls him down so they're lying side by side. "Plus, we're just teenagers. I'll take care of you always. Teach you how to use your powers." _

"Remember when my parents kicked me out?" Zitao asks the ceiling, asks the lights that have turned purple. Joonmyun hums beside him and Zitao blinks away the tears. "I always wanted to turn back time really far, back to that moment and before and redo everything."

"For what outcome?" Joonmyun asks, voice close to Zitao's ear. His heart flutters, remembers the way Joonmyun's voice sounded before it was dulled by the self hatred that ran through Zitao's veins.

"To never meet you," Zitao is still looking up at the ceiling, but the hand on top of his squeezes tightly. Reassurance even when Zitao doesn't know if he still wants. "I wanted to never meet you and just live with my powers and have my parents love me."

"And why haven't you?"

"Because I did meet you," Zitao says, and he's crying now, remembering more things, bad things. "I didn't want to swallow pills when I was with you. I didn't want to be broken or damaged or hated and you made me feel like I wasn't."

"But you still did," Joonmyun says, and Zitao knows he doesn't understand, has never been able to understand any way of dealing with life's problems that doesn't have the Joonmyun stamp of approval on it.

"One person can't change a lifetime of inner belief," Zitao says, and this time it's to Joonmyun and not the ceiling, eyes meeting through blurred tears. "I couldn't turn back time because I couldn't bear living life with those memories. That's the worst thing about this power you know, the memories."

_ there are memories Joonmyun will never remember, moments so toxic Zitao wishes he could drown in them, could burn them and cut them up and make them disappear. screaming, fights, shot down proposals, all the things that Zitao erased that Joonmyun will never know. _

"Do you want to talk about them?" Joonmyun asks, and Zitao hates how gentle his voice is, hates how his lips move inches from him.

"In the morning?"

"Everything is in the morning with you," Joonmyun laughs, a quiet, fond laugh. Zitao wonders if maybe telling Joonmyun these things would have fixed them a long time ago.

Zitao falls asleep before he can answer.

\---

Talking doesn't happen in the morning.

Zitao only has so much patience, so much restraint, and with Joonmyun right there in his sights, beautiful and asleep with parted lips and innocent eyelashes, he forgets. Forgets that this might not be permanent, that there are problems and Joonmyun shouldn't be back with him, shouldn't be poking into his life, changing him like he always used to.

He is though, and Zitao forgets that he shouldn't touch when the sun streams through the partly opened curtains and illuminates the curve of Joonmyun's shoulders, the way he smacks his lips in his sleep and curls closer to Zitao when he inches away. It could almost fool Zitao, have him thinking this is just like a morning at Joonmyun's.

For a moment Zitao thinks he's accidentally turned back time, accidentally put them back at a morning at Joonmyun's, but his brain awakes eventually, eyes focusing on the stupid neon lighting and the cramped room. They're not at Joonmyun's, but a love motel somewhere in Seoul, one that houses damaged souls and broken promises, powers that Zitao doesn't even want to have bringing back the worst of everything.

Zitao leans forward carefully, testing the waters by brushing his lips close to Joonmyun's. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel Joonmyun's breathing, to bump his nose off Joonmyun's lightly.

"What are you doing?" Joonmyun's voice is muffled with sleep, but he opens his eyes to look at Zitao in barely awake confusion.

"I can't not," Is all Zitao says before he leans and kisses Joonmyun softly, trying to hold back from the usual way he powers into everything, the usual way Zitao is stubborn, never slow. Joonmyun freezes only for a moment, but soon he's reciprocating, taking over to speed things up, kisses deepening in that lazy, half-asleep way.

Zitao moans.

Joonmyun pulls back and Zitao is nervous, shrinking only to burst forth with emotion when Joonmyun just looks at him slowly, fingers trailing softly down Zitao's side to rest at his hips. "Are you sure?" Joonmyun asks, and Zitao isn't sure who he's actually asking.

"You're the one who doesn't seem sure," Zitao mutters, voice silky soft in the way he knows _gets to_ Joonmyun, has him hot, needy and pliant if only for a few seconds before the reigns are in his hands again.

It's bruising, the feel of lips crashing together with force and no grace, Joonmyun's hands sliding up underneath Zitao's tanktop. Zitao is pushed backwards until his back hits the bed and Joonmyun is crawling over top of him, looking down at him.

Zitao can still the see the weariness in his eyes, can still see the hesitance, the unspoken repetition of the other nights thoughts and attitudes. Zitao knows they shouldn't -- they need to talk, fix, work things out -- but Joonmyun is intoxicating as he takes control. Zitao's missed this, missed him, missed them, and in that moment he forgets how messy things are, how messy _they_.

Zitao's fingers twitch. 

"We shouldn't do this until we're healthy," Joonmyun says, an echo of Zitao's thoughts, but he doesn't care, tugging Joonmyun forward to kiss him, drag his tongue across Joonmyun's lips until they relent to open, to letting him. 

Zitao's fingers twitch again, because things are going _too fast_. His tongue is lapping hungrily at the top of Joonmyun's mouth, hands holding Joonmyun as close as he can, fingers digging into skin. Zitao wants to slow it down, wants to bring them into the dreamy place between normal and murky, enhance things, make things seem less _real_.

"Don't do it," Joonmyun whispers in his ear as he kisses his way down, teeth nipping lightly in sensitive places, sucking marks down Zitao's neck, the kind that say _mine mine mine_.

Except Zitao doesn't belong to him anymore, and the thought is jarring but he doesn't stop, doesn't hold back. Joonmyun grinds down, a fluid motion that has Zitao lifting his hips to meet him. It's all more desperate than Zitao remembers, too quick, too raw, and his body is reacting from _need_ more than it is want. 

Zitao needs Joonmyun. Needs him to fix the broken parts of Zitao, the pieces that were already in shambles before Joonmyun had even been there, the shattered remnants of a Zitao that once was. 

Zitao has already fixed the jagged edges of glass that had pieced their way through the once bright corners of his heart when Joonmyun had left. He realizes this in between kisses and touches, in between Joonmyun tugging his boxers down and the way his mouth works magic on Zitao's inner thighs. 

Caresses and bites and drags, tongue soothing the areas that only stay sore for moments, Zitao thrashing, thinking, emotions running higher than arousal. His fingers cease their twitching when his hands find themselves in Joonmyun's hair, tugging at the strands like a lifeline when Joonmyun closes his mouth around Zitao's cock.

It's slow, the way Joonmyun teases, flicks his tongue at the tip and drags it down the sides, pumping with his fingers as if he's afraid of hurting Zitao. It's nearly too much, the way he drags it out, the way it feels like there's so much more going on and Zitao realizes why his fingers have stopped twitching.

Somewhere in between his focus on emotion and on Joonmyun and on his own self restraint, Joonmyun had begun to recreate the effects of Zitao's time powers, had dripped wet onto arms with his fingers and slowed himself down to barely a crawl.

Zitao keens.

"Want you," He pleads, and it's not unusual, Zitao begging. Not unusual for him to whine and thrash and _want_ so early, so much. Joonmyun pulls off Zitao's cock with a wet pop to stare him right in the eyes, quiet in the way he flicks his bangs out of his eyes and surveys their situation with the kind of calculation only an accountant could have.

"Do you?" Joonmyun asks in a low voice, and Zitao forgets again -- forgets that this isn't normal anymore, forgets that they shouldn't be doing this -- and he's starting to not care that they shouldn't be doing anything, starting to just want Joonmyun as he always is, always was.

"Like how we used to be," Zitao murmurs, sounding choked. His voice is still silky soft, still a purr but he stutters, hands winding their way around Joonmyun's neck. He shudders. "When I was your baby boy and you left me ask and you let me want and you let me call you anything I wanted."

"I'm always anything you want me to be," Joonmyun says softly, and the change is sudden, from sharp and desperate to tender and over indulging. Joonmyun doesn't elaborate on his words, doesn't say anything further and Zitao stops the twitching of his hands and keeps his words silent.

He doesn't want to fuck things up this time.

"I want you to be mine again," Zitao says instead of what he wants to say, words strained with the way his breathing quickens. Joonmyun's hands are on him, soft and slow and barely touching as a thumb swipes around the head of his cock, digs in gently.

"I've always been yours," Joonmyun laughs, awkward among the way skin drags against skin, slick with the way Joonmyun's water power coats them in a sheen that isn't just sweat. Zitao's fingers twitch, with jealousy this time. Joonmyun's powers don't affect the way people think, don't ruin relationships.

"But have I always been yours?" Zitao counters in a shaky voice. Joonmyun's fingers, wet, cold, slip their way underneath, prodding their way in between Zitao's cheeks to trace around where he wants them to be.

Joonmyun doesn't answer his question.

Zitao arches his back dramatically out of spite when Joonmyun's fingers push in, water consistency changing to be that much slicker, a too-handy tool for sex that Joonmyun has always sworn was probably for something else, _stop thinking with your dick Tao_.

He makes sure to throw his head back, makes sure to gasp, moan, whimper in the most beautiful ways as he fucks himself back on Joonmyun's fingers. Zitao knows he's beautiful like this, knows he's beautiful always, and if Joonmyun doesn't think Zitao belongs to him Zitao will prove it.

"I am yours," He moans, _growls_ when Joonmyun slows his pace, hips twisting to try for a better, to meet Joonmyun's fingers as they probe for the right place. Zitao doesn't think of time right now, too focused on his goal, too focused on the way his cock throbs with impatience, want.

"Then be mine," Joonmyun says calmly, and _fuck_ , it's unfair that he gets to be this calm, this level, that he can take Zitao apart like always. Zitao opens his eyes, vision blurry as he stares at Joonmyun, ragged breaths and slick sounds of fingers pumping in and out of him filling what could be a heavy silence.

Zitao can see how hard Joonmyun is through his underwear, wants to take his cock out and kiss it, fingers sliding their way up Joonmyun's thighs to do just that. Joonmyun takes that moment to thrust his fingers purposefully hard into Zitao, and Zitao shudders the full body kind, whines loudly.

"Please," Zitao sputters, twists in place and tries to bite back his moans, bites too hard and tastes blood on his lips, on his tongue. Joonmyun moves back up his body in a flash, removes his fingers too quickly and Zitao is panting, hips trying to find them again.

Joonmyun kisses him clean, laps the blood up from Zitao's lips like a lustful vampire, hungry and needy and wanting. "Please," Zitao manages when Joonmyun breaks away, chases his lips and grips Joonmyun's arms with his hands, tight and possessive.

Joonmyun enters him swiftly, without warning and forgotten again are the heavy words spoken just minutes ago, forgotten again is the quiet way in which the morning surrounds them, mid-morning sun beaming warmth as Zitao struggles to not scream.

Joonmyun may be a gentle person, may be nurturing and forgiving and emphatic, but he fucks hard, fast, body quaking thrusts that have Zitao letting out garbled moans, nonsense words that switch between Korean and Mandarin, slurred and beautiful.

Zitao's fingers twitch, not to turn back time but to touch himself, to curl fingers around his own cock and tug until he can come, until he can lie back in the pillows and let Joonmyun take care of him.

"Not yet baby," Joonmyun whispers, voice feather soft in Zitao's ear. It's a complete contrast to the way he's thrusting into Zitao, abandoning emotion for pure physical feeling, and Zitao can barely breathe.

Joonmyun eventually reaches to touch Zitao himself, fingers still cold from the drops of water that come from them, and the sensation, temperatures changing rapidly and fingers digging in with intent as they tug him to completion is nearly too much.

Zitao comes with a high noise -- nearly a scream and nearly nothing at all -- body arching off the bed and then collapsing, white across his stomach and Joonmyun's hands as Joonmyun thrusts erratically, quickens his pace for his own orgasm.

Zitao feels boneless, satisfied, as Joonmyun pulls out, brushes Zitao's sweat soaked bangs from his face and kisses his forehead gently. "Do you still want to have that talk?" He asks in a soothing voice.

Zitao shakes his head, avoids eye contact. His breathing is still laboured, limbs shaking from the aftershocks that have become a hum of energy. "I just want to be alive."

He doesn't think Joonmyun quite understands what he means.

 

\----

"You didn't change the time flow."

There's a glass of wine in Joonmyun's hand -- ice wine, imported -- and it matches the collar of his expensive jacket, the tie with it's perfect knot. He looks functional, smart, and Zitao can practically taste his cologne from across the table.

Zitao hasn't touched his food.

"I know," He says, and there's nothing smug about the way he says it, nothing proud. He's scared, worried about the implications of their morning romp, of what it means for the conversation that had been progressing the night before.

Zitao isn't one to think deeply into the pieces of emotion, isn't one to detach himself from their core to pick them apart into smaller pieces, but he is now, dissecting Joonmyun's every move, dissecting his every thought. Every flash of emotion is caught and stored in his mind and then assessed, over assessed, panicked over.

"I'm sorry about--" Zitao stops, licks his lips. His words aren't connecting together, won't reach his mouth from his brain and he takes another sip of his own wine, his third glass to Joonmyun's first. "I didn't mean to jump on you -- I just forgot and I wanted and I--"

"It doesn't matter," Joonmyun says brusquely, and Zitao isn't sure how to take the harshness of his tone, the way the words cut off his thoughts completely. The restaurant Joonmyun's brought him too -- upscale, fancy, with a dress code -- feels stuffier than it should, and Zitao tugs at the collar of his shirt.

"The memories you spoke of," Joonmyun continues, harsh tone replaced with soft undertones. It reminds Zitao of the way a brush thread its way through the sand of a Zen garden. "It's okay if you don't want me to remember them. It's okay if they exist and it's okay if I do hear about them."

"I don't want those to exist anymore," Zitao's voice is nearly a whine, and he struggles to quiet himself, struggles to stay presentable. He doesn't understand why Joonmyun would take him here for a serious talk. "I want everything to be new memories."

"You can't go back."

"I don't want to," Zitao says with a shy smile, eyes shining with tears that are sudden in their need to fall. "I want to move forward as if the past never happened, new memories that I won't ever replace."

"Even if they're bad?" Joonmyun asks, prods gently and Zitao is suddenly aware of the cold food on his plate, fancy dishes he can't name but has had many times in the past.

"Especially if they're bad," Zitao hums quietly, and he's nodding to himself, tears sliding down his cheeks as he pokes at his food with his fork. "I want to accept all parts of us and me, good or bad."

"With enough work, it's possible," Joonmyun says with a smile, and Zitao feels out of place with this conversation, feels oddly mature, oddly calm. Like the last few nights, months, years of emotion were meaningless.

And yet he knows they weren't because they've shaped them and he's realizing a lot of things. Realizing that the jagged pieces of his soul and of them were just smaller souls and all he needs to do is pick one up and polish it until it's new again, until it can grow.

“Take the job interview,” Joonmyun tells him, and Zitao is struck with his beauty, is struck with the knowledge and understanding that the flow of time isn’t what controls him, but Joonmyun is in his offhand way. And it’s not that Zitao should feel controlled because he’s proven, even through struggle that his thoughts and actions are his own, that it takes only him to fix himself and only them to fix each other. 

“Come stay with me,” Joonmyun repeats his wants, and this time Zitao wants them too, wants the security of Joonmyun, of a life that doesn’t involve friends floors and the cold, hard walls of clubs he’s leaned against in the throes of drugs, time, the dreamy in between he’s grown to detest. 

“I can’t change as quickly as you want me to,” Zitao says through a fresh batch of tears, ignores the look a passing waiter gives them. 

“It’s okay Taozi,” Joonmyun places a hand on his own, and his eyes are deep as they meet Zitao’s again. “I love you.”

"We're messy, aren't we?" Zitao says aloud, not to Joonmyun but to the world. Joonmyun agrees with a soft hum, reaches over to steal a piece of food of Zitao's plate.

"We're hopeful,” Is all Joonmyun says.


End file.
